


you and me will get on just fine

by smithens



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Awkward Crush, Flirting, M/M, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:34:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 11,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22287211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: If Thomas is perfectly honest, he'd do just about anything Richard Ellis asked of him so long as he kept looking at him like that.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Chris Webster, Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Comments: 130
Kudos: 214





	1. Thomas

**Author's Note:**

> these are vignettes all in the same verse, writing them sort of at random and non-chronologically. work is marked complete because i have no idea when i'll stop, though i'm sure there will be at least a couple after these first two, seeing as... i have already begun to write them, haha.
> 
> rating is T because thomas says fuck sometimes.

"We've got a bit of time," he says. His smile is broad and genial, but there's something more to it now than there was in Downton, more in his eyes than there was at the house. It's like the nearer he is to York the more he is a ray of fucking sunshine, and being that they're in the heart of the city now he's at full force, blinding. "What do you say I show you around, give you a sense of things before I leave you?"

Thomas has never been looked at like this before in his life, not even close, and certainly not by someone who looks like he stepped off the page of a Harrod's advertisement. If he's perfectly honest, he'd do just about anything Richard Ellis asked of him so long as he kept doing it, kept glancing over at him with light in his eyes, laughter from his lips, that easy, charming smile.

Of course, if he were to give that bit away, more likely than not the man would never look at him again at all, let alone how he is now.

"Sounds like a plan to me," Thomas says, doing his best to be just as carefree and cordial as the one walking next to him.

Not even. More like doing his best not to go overboard with it, because that's how he's feeling: in over his head, giddy.

"Besides, you've got plenty to prove about this place, haven't you?" he adds, and the words are met with more laughter.

 _Stop that,_ Thomas thinks, _stop being bloody perfect._

He never should have agreed to this. He hopes they're not losing their heads over it back at the house, him going out with a man — he's in for an interrogation from Baxter for sure, possibly Mrs Hughes and Anna, Daisy or Albert if he's unlucky. The rest of them he doesn't want to think about, because he knows his staff and he knows what they're comfortable with and he himself does not often make that list. They can't keep a bloody secret downstairs at Downton Abbey, he's learned that if nothing else in his time there, but the way everyone throws it all back in his face nowadays… 

He saw how they looked at him at luncheon today, and at breakfast, and at supper, and so on and so forth since Richard arrived and they'd found they got on well. Because it's so fucking surprising that he can be amiable with a stranger. That he can have _innocent intentions_ with a stranger — and certainly he's hoping, and he'll readily admit there have been moments where he's been inclined to do more than that, but he's been a good boy and learned his bloody lesson and he's not let on about that to anyone, least of all the man himself.

All he wants is a damn friend, but they're making more of it than they would the second coming of Christ, and he hates it.

"Tell you what, Mr Barrow, I can at least guarantee you there's more to do in _this place_ than in Downton," Richard returns, "though I'll let you see it for yourself, like."

"Told you already I don't mind if you call me Thomas," he says.

"I know."

Infuriating. Absolutely infuriating.

"Shall I stop calling you Richard, then?" 

After all, he did ask so nicely on the drive over.

Richard doesn't skip a beat. "Call me whatever you please."

_Infuriating._

"Well, then I suppose I may as well keep it on Christian terms."

Once again, Richard only grins at him.

Thomas is head over fucking heels.


	2. Richard

The truth, of course, is that if he starts calling him by his forename he'll be toeing a line he dare not cross: the line between _someone I work with_ and _someone I'm friends with,_ and from there it's only a matter of time before he toes the next line, _someone I'm keen on going to bed with,_ and thereby sticks his foot in it entirely. Safer this way, he reckons.

His mission, then, is one of reconnaissance, and he's sorry that he's only managing to undertake it the day before his departure. Thomas Barrow may be canny in more ways than one, but if he's aware of what all hints Richard's been trying to drop in front of him, he hasn't let on. Plenty of reasons for that, of course — if the man is queer himself he's doubtless inclined to discretion; Richard will readily admit that most of his poking and prodding has happened with others around, and if not then with plenty of opportunities for interruptions. No harm in having witnesses when none of them have a clue as to what's what. Then, given he and Thomas have spent about the last hour alone and out of the house with nothing to show for it… more likely than not, he's simply unaware, though whether that's because he's a normal one or because he lives in a country house in the damn North Riding is anyone's guess.

A very pleasant last hour alone, however, nonetheless. 

"It's not as though I've never been here before," Thomas says suddenly. "I have."

"Ever on your own accord?"

"No," and then before he even has a chance to make a rebuttal — there are plenty of good ones — "if I'm going somewhere on my own accord there are better choices than York."

Christ.

"Such as?"

When Richard looks over, Thomas is raising his eyebrows. "Awfully interested in what I do with my half-days, aren't you, Richard?"

_Christ._

It's an innocuous question, only a joke, a normal man wouldn't think twice —

"More interested in defending the honour of the city I grew up in, Mr Barrow."

There, that sounds like something his brother could say.

Richard's beginning to wonder if any of this is actually to do with York at all. He knows he's being absurd with it, himself, that's most of the fun in it, and although he only met the man a few days ago he's beginning to suspect that Thomas has his tongue in his cheek with him more than he might otherwise. Repartee, which he certainly (and delightfully, it's not often he meets a man who can talk like this one) has a knack for, is one thing; whatever this is is another. They keep circling back to the same handful of things to discuss with occasional falls into light-hearted bickering, even after Richard has supposed the matter resolved. 

For him, it's a path well-trod. After all, there are only so many ways to flirt under the table, and teasing about superficial things of no consequence is his own method of choice. 

…and wishful thinking like that will have him skipping rope with the line not to cross in no time.


	3. Thomas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back in time....

He doesn't remember the last time he was so close to another man, but it was long ago enough that standing here half an inch apart from Ellis has him on tenterhooks. 

"Right," Ellis says. "Go on and you dial, then, Mr Barrow."

They're not looking at each other, and they're not touching.

They're not _touching._

They're not touching, but if he shifts his weight or turns his head or leans forward or even _breathes,_ it feels like, they would be.

His heart is racing.

Before his hesitancy can be noticed and thus remarked upon, he says, "are we sure this is going to work?"

Because that's reason enough to give a man pause, isn't it?

_Why, no, Mr Ellis, I was not having a turn at the mere thought of brushing up against your shoulder, I was simply concerned that this thing we came up with is going to get us both sacked. Perfectly normal, nothing to worry about, you'll find I'm the most proper man you've ever met if you happen to think on it. Why would I think on it, you say? No reason! (do not under any circumstances give him a fucking reason)_

Thomas turns to look at him. 

Ellis is raising his eyebrows.

"Your idea, wasn't it?" he says, somewhere between a question and a statement of fact.

"Your job on the line," Thomas says swiftly. Both of their jobs, really, but Ellis has got a good deal more to lose. "Just giving you a chance to back out is all."

"I'm a man of my word, Mr Barrow."

Of course he is.

"Yeah, well," Thomas says, "let's hope you're as good at this as you say you are, then," but he smiles for good measure, and Ellis smiles back.

And here he is, mooning like a schoolgirl.

He dials the house number; they wait.

It rings twice.

"Downton Abbey."

There's Bates… 

"Is that Thomas?"

…and there's Baxter. 

"It's Mr Barrow," he says, "and someone very important from Buckingham Palace…"

They're lucky the postman stepped out; this could all go to shambles if he hadn't.

Could well go to shambles anyway.

He hands the telephone to Ellis; their fingers almost touch. Thomas does his best not think about it.

"…calling for Mr Wilson," Ellis says, as himself. "Urgent business."

He's grinning, and you can hear it in his voice; as charming as it is, now's not exactly a good time. But it _is_ very charming. Very very charming. Refreshing, too, no one at Downton is very expressive on or off duty, or at least, not quite like this. Men aren't _like_ this, in his experience, but then, he doesn't get on with other men. Or, more aptly, other men don't get on with him. How should he know what they're like?

The two of them, though, they've been getting on since _shall I show you to your room, Mr Ellis,_ and fair enough, maybe all there is to it is that they've got age and station in common, that they're the only ones of two combined households with age and station in common, for that matter, but friendships have been built on less.

Pity he's leaving tomorrow. Thomas has been looking forward to this evening since before it was even arranged, not that he's showed it.

Nobody at the house would let him get away with looking all that excited about spending time alone with a handsome man, although he's lucky they seem to be wise enough that they're not about to go tell an outsider to steer clear of him.

Probably why this is going so well, really. Thomas can put his best foot forward without the past weighing him down.

From the other end of the line there's a clink as the receiver is laid down, a shuffle, some distant voices, and then, after several long, anxious moments… 

"This is the _touring_ Royal Household," _please be good,_ Thomas thinks, _I really want to like you,_ "at Downton Abbey," _not that I don't already like you more than I ought to,_ "you are speaking to Wilson," _but I would really prefer we don't fuck it up,_ "the King's – "

"I _know_ who you _are,_ " spits Ellis.

"Sir Harry!"

Bloody perfect.


	4. Thomas

If someone had told him that he would one day find himself thankful to be in the boot room more than all the rest of the downstairs, he would probably have assumed that everywhere else must have been on fire — he was not, strictly speaking, fond of the boot room. He wasn't fond of anywhere in the house, aside from perhaps the nursery, because it wasn't his place to be fond, it was his place to get a job done and keep his feelings to himself lest they get in the way of things. 

And yet, here he was, thankful to be in the boot room. 

Thomas had lived through a fire. 

The Royal Visit had a comparable amount of shouting and a greater amount of everyone running about like chickens with their heads cut off. 

"You wouldn't happen to have clinching nails on hand, would you, Mr Barrow?" 

"Steel or brass?" he asked, without looking. His assumption was brass. 

"Brass." 

The guess had been based entirely off of common sense; that did not stop him from feeling self-satisfied that it'd been correct. 

When Thomas turned around from the cupboard, Ellis smiled in a way that made his heart leap into his throat. 

"What size?" 

"Oh, five-eighths? Could get away with four." 

"We have both," Thomas said, already opening a drawer. Under regular circumstances he might have simply told him which compartment of which drawer had what he needed and said good luck, but it would be easier to hand them out than to tell the man to help himself. It made for less work for him in the end, too — as a rule, people couldn't follow instructions to save their lives, he'd rather get the job done now than allow Ellis to make things more complicated than they needed to be and have to clean up after him. 

That, at least, was what he was telling himself. 

It had nothing at all to do with the fact that placing the box of nails in his hand would be an excellent excuse for Thomas to stand next to him. 

"Might I borrow a few?" 

"Do you plan on giving them back, then, Mr Ellis? 

Ellis grinned at him. "No." 

Who gave him the bloody right to have a mouth like that. 

Feeling rather as though he'd just been made the victim of a crime, if there were a crime such as making a man feel — right, he was going to stop _that_ thought in its tracks, because he knew very well that there indeed was something along those lines on the books and now was not exactly the best bloody time to be thinking about it — Thomas retrieved the box of five-eighths brass clinching nails, held it out for show, rattled it, and took two strides to set it upon the work table next to the trunk. 

"Thanks," Ellis said. He opened the carton and began to pick through it without looking at its contents; conscious of the fact that he was being stared at, Thomas awkwardly shifted back and forth on his feet before turning back to the cupboard and trying desperately to come up with some sort of task to get on with. He'd come in here in the first place for a reason, after all; now he only needed to remember what it was. "You'd think two heads were better than one, but sometimes I reckon Mr Miller and I only lose things twice as often — right, these'll do." 

"Can't say I've ever had that problem, myself," Thomas said casually. "Never had someone around to do the dirty work for me." 

Ellis laughed. "Mine's the dirty work." 

Whatever his reason was, he'd entirely forgotten it. Thomas gave up and turned back around. At the work table Ellis was idly tilting a tin of shoe polish back and forth in his fingers; when he saw that Thomas was facing him again, he smiled, looked at it in his hands, and set it aside. 

He'd caught him fidgeting. 

Thomas attempted to school his face into something that wasn't a foolish smile. "Have you got a hammer in there?" 

"A hammer?" 

He raised his eyebrows. "For the nails you're borrowing?" 

"Right," Ellis said after a moment, sheepishly. If Thomas wasn't mistaken, he was blushing. 

What a thought. 

Without looking at him, Ellis took a pair of shoes from the trunk, set them aside, and then poked around in the compartment. 

"I don't," said Ellis, like it was of no importance at all, and before Thomas could mention they happened to have one of those as well if he so needed, he looked up and added, "say, Mr Barrow, have you thought at all about my offer?" 

_What offer?_

"What offer?" 

Ellis lifted his chin and raised his eyebrows, searching; he opened his mouth to speak — 

…and then Anna came storming through the door, followed by Baxter. 

Thomas whipped back around to the cupboard, heart pounding. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know so much about shoe repairs now you guys


	5. Richard

"What offer."

Barrow was difficult to read.

Whether it was a genuine question from a man with other things on his mind or yet another flippant dismissal (he could just about imagine him following that up with something along the lines of _didn't seem like much of one to me, Mr Ellis_ ) of the notion he might like to go somewhere in particular, Richard hadn't the faintest idea.

The problem was, he sort of had to come up with one if he was going to say the right thing, but if he couldn't manage to do that...

Sometimes the only thing to do was stall for more time, and sometimes the only way to do it was to talk round in circles.

"Is it always like this?"

— the interruption was a blessing and a curse.

Barrow turned from him rapidly, as though he'd been caught in the act of a crime.

He knew that feeling all too well, himself, the need to keep one's distance, the thought that anything and everything would be noticed by anyone with a half-keen eye. He'd been feeling it himself since Monday, when Barrow had shown him to his room and they'd found they got on like a house on fire.

He'd been especially feeling it when they'd proceeded to inadvertently (on his part, at least, though he did have his doubts about Barrow's own) irritate everyone at supper that evening. 

But they weren't doing anything wrong now. For him to behave as though they were was promising: either he was hiding something that didn't need hiding because he had an excess of caution _because he was queer,_ or… or he was just startled, plain and simple, and Richard was reading too much into the actions of a man he'd already determined thrice over to be swinging on a pendulum so far as his manner was concerned, and ergo well on his way to making a fool of himself.

Or worse.

And so Richard didn't waste time in answering Mrs Bates's question. He always said the same thing, after all. 

"A Royal Visit's like a swan on a lake," he began, busying himself once again with His Majesty's shoe polish, as was his allotted dirty work, thanks, Mr Barrow, "grace and serenity above, demented kicking down below."

What had begun as a knack for figures of speech had over the years evolved into an especially effective way of putting himself forward as just a touch more composed a man than he really was — he wasn't quite so quick on his feet as he could make himself sound, it was moreso he had a library in his head he could pull from and put spins on at will, but if what came out of his mouth was convincing, those around him didn't tend to dig too deep.

Hearing was believing just as much as the other thing.

"Wish I could get away," Barrow was saying, seemingly to the room at large, and this time Richard was going to be quick on his feet because he had to be — 

"I've got tomorrow night off when Mr Miller arrives," he started, and then Barrow was around the work table, cobbler's hammer loose in his grip, nearly smiling but more than that, looking at him in a way that felt very, very intentional.

When he'd said something just along those lines the evening before, Richard had asked him a question.

He was going to ask it one more time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> insert muffled screaming about the SPLIT SECOND when mr ellis freezes before saying "I've got tomorrow night off," etc etc


	6. Richard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am ill Again....... if this is incomprehensible i make my apologies.... also i actually didn't rewatch the scene for this one unlike the last two so any mistakes there i take responsibility for. womp

"...best to take it in stride, I reckon. We'll be out of your hair in a few days' time."

Mr Barrow huffs; Richard gives him his most winning smile and forces himself not to notice his reaction.

They turn a corner in the stairwell, which makes it easier than it otherwise would have been.

"You will be _in_ our hair, then?" asks Mr Barrow.

It is an innocent question.

"Yes."

"And how's that work, exactly?"

"Well for us," Richard says lightly, because this is another innocent question. "And it could be worse for you. We'll only be nine men in total, assuming the chauffeurs and the groomsmen are put up on the grounds."

"Only nine," says Mr Barrow. He turns and gives Richard a glance with his mouth in a half-smile — a smirk is what it is, really — and his eyebrows raised, and his damm heart falls into his stomach. 

About time, really, it's been turning somersaults in his chest since he saw the man flustered in the entryway, although he'd assumed that was only a matter of new house nerves. He gets them the same as anyone else; they all do, though no one would ever show it. There are things for them to worry about, after all, even when they've got heaps more power and influence than the rest of whom they encounter. What Downton Abbey's given him, however… He's got more than his fair share, he reckons. Took him by surprise seeing a handsome fellow his own age at the door, that's all it was. 

And that's all it will be.

He is not going to fall over himself for the butler of a minor provincial household.

"Yeah," and he steps out of the way of the hallboy coming down the corridor, gives him an encouraging smile that goes entirely unnoticed. He's not yet looked him in the face, poor thing, and Richard doubts he will. 

He doesn't miss those days, himself, being trampled underfoot of the upper ranks of the household, and it's bad enough when they've only got their own people to reckon with.

"Yeah," continues Richard, more solidly this time, less like he's had his breath taken away. "If we were here for much longer it'd be about thirty or so."

"Blimey, you don't ask much of us, do you?"

"Even at ten we're a demanding lot, you'll find," he admits. Best to be honest up front. "Can't deny that."

"Don't need to tell me twice," Mr Barrow returns, eyeing him with something resembling interest. Resembling likely being the key word, there; he's got every reason to be suspicious. "Found out already, in fact."

"I'd apologise for it, but – "

" – but that would be setting me up for disappointment."

Richard is momentarily taken aback. "In a manner of speaking."

"You lot don't seem the type to be keen on apologising, Mr Ellis," he says, another smile on his face. His candor is appealing, and Richard hopes he's not showing just how much. "Room's here – we have supper after the upstairs dinner, so you've plenty of time…"

"Thanks," Richard says, expecting him to leave — and hoping he does, so he can have a minute to collect himself, wipe the smile off his face, but he doesn't.

He starts to settle in, begging him to take the hint, but he doesn't do that, either.

"How does it work, with two valets?"

If he had a tanner for every time he'd heard question in the last month and a half...

He gives his prepared explanation — condensed, of course, finer details elided, the dynamics of two dressers is easy enough to answer for, but it gets more complicated when taking into account the fact there are three more men with the same title back at Buckingham Palace who will overlap with _him_ — and Mr Barrow gives him a look that makes him feel as though he's seeing right through him.

_Busy yourself with the damn valise._

"So, Mr Miller's the one who actually dresses the king."

This is not in the script.

It's also not said like a question, or not as much as it could be, but he answers it as though it is one: "unless he's ill," and Richard takes a breath and smiles again, one he knows reaches his eyes. It ought to be less easy to get there, given he's in the presence of a man he just met an hour ago — being a man of his sort and in his position has lead to his having certain talents, talents that should get him by without bringing his actual feelings into the matter, and this is getting dangerously close to melding the two. "Then it's me."

"Is he often ill?"

Ouch.

"No," he says, and Mr Barrow smirks at him from the doorway and he can't help but laugh along, and —

And he is going to fall over himself for the butler of a minor provincial household.


	7. Thomas

"Well," says Thomas, "shall I show you to your room, Mr Ellis?"

This time he remembers himself, and he does not look at Ellis's lips at the rim of his teacup, at the flutter of his fingers upon the handle, at the lift of his Adam's apple as he swallows, because he is conscious now of Mrs Patmore staring at him with narrowed eyes, of the look that Anna exchanges with Bates, of Miss Baxter's soft and encouraging smile.

One of these days they're going to slip up and get him arrested.

"You'd better," Ellis replies gaily. "Sure I'd have trouble finding it on my own… might wander into yours by mistake."

What a terrible, horrible tragedy that would be.

…but the lady's maid looks up at him with sharp eyes like she _knows_ , like she's figured it out already, and she wouldn't be the first would she, and Albert, practicing his stitching in the corner, leans around to look at him curiously, and Daisy makes a considering noise… 

Because it was the wrong thing to say, with this lot hanging on every word.

The worst possible thing to say, even.

Around him the air feels suddenly oppressive, stuffy, laden with the sense that they all know exactly what thought it was that just came into his head. He tugs at the wrist of his glove.

"You'd not rather have Andy do it," says Mrs Patmore at last, sounding offended, like she's the protector of masculine virtue in the household, a bloody patron saint for visiting valets.

Thomas does his damndest not to glare daggers.

"Does seem a job fit for a footman," Mr Bates chimes in.

Anna elbows him; Miss Baxter frowns.

He pretends not to notice. 

Thankfully – or not – Ellis is staring at _him,_ at _Thomas,_ eyebrows raised, lips parted as though he's about to speak, almost flustered, and he probably hasn't noticed the antics at the table, isn't just pretending, too. Thomas hopes. (And he figures, _against_ hope, that if he has, he's got to be normal enough not to understand them.)

"Andy?" he says nonchalantly.

"Is busy," Thomas says, a touch too emphatically, and for levity he adds, "it's just him, the _other_ seven footmen are all on holiday, inconvenient if you ask me – "

And Ellis laughs, free and easy, like he hasn't a care in the world, the way only blokes who are self-possessed and self-assured can. 

He is much too charming for Thomas's own good.

The housemaids — who really ought to have gone back to the village by now, a dresser and a valet can't be _that_ interesting even if they've got Royal in front of their titles — seem to agree.

Well, they certainly can't follow them up to the men's corridor, now, can they.

Eager to be out of the servants' hall, Thomas places his cup back on the saucer and rises from his chair; Ellis follows.

"Lead the way, Mr Barrow."


	8. Thomas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **me, to myself:** these are going to be little vignettes of about 250 to 750 words :-)
> 
> **also me:**

"Right," said Ellis, already risen to his feet. His hands went straight to the buttons of his suitjacket; he undid one and then let his arms fall to his sides, stiff.

Thomas, who was _not_ looking at his hands, and certainly was not thinking about if he'd kept going in that direction, thank you very much, stood about as quickly as Albert did whenever he entered a room — as though his arse were on fire.

He was beginning to think that valets at Buckingham Palace were hired on the basis of their exceptional smiles… and didn't he hope the _other_ one wasn't like this. 

One was already more than he could stand.

"This was nice," he said, like an idiot, and then he added, "I'll just, er… let you get some rest, then."

The smile subsided, and Ellis raised his eyebrows. He was prone to doing that, Thomas had noticed.

"Had a long day," he returned, with a slight lift in his chin — it was questioning more than anything, not a trace of defiance in it. 

"You must have," Thomas said. "I'm sure we take some getting used to." 

He tried to smile, himself. 

Whether he succeeded or not he didn't know, because there was no sign of anything on his face besides an amused twitch in his lips. And that could have meant anything from _I am patiently waiting for this bumbling fool to get out of my room_ to _I am ever so sorry to see you leave you charming Mr Barrow you but I am here until Friday morning and you know where to find me you could even stay if you liked it gets chilly in the attics of these old squire houses and I am sure we could both do with some company_

Well, it certainly didn't mean that.

Ellis turned his head in the direction of the wide-open door. 

Closer to the former than the latter, then.

Thomas stepped away, set his hands upon the back of the chair. By this point he'd both excused himself and been dismissed, he had no business hanging around. No doubt the man was looking forward to getting out his work clothes and climbing into bed (stop!) after the day he'd had, because save for meals and forty blissful minutes side by side but for a chair between them in the servants' hall, Ellis had been up and about since before six getting what had turned out to be a large amount of very particular things in order.

But…

"Small household, aren't you?" Ellis said idly. He was still looking away; Thomas was still looking at him. He had a handsome profile. It went quite well with his handsome everything else. "Wasn't much stirring last night."

Because that was just what Thomas needed, was to think about him lying awake in bed pondering the amount of activity in the men's corridor.

"Er," he said. 

If this man hadn't noticed yet that Thomas was secretly a lonely desperate chump underneath all the wit and banter… 

Ellis laughed, sort of; he turned his head back. There was a flicker of something different in his face, like for a moment he'd stopped working — a wind-up toy with a jam in the mechanism — but only for a moment, and then it was gone.

"Yeah, guess that was a silly question."

"We've got four men on the indoor staff," Thomas said quickly, because it wasn't, and he didn't want him to think that he thought he was _silly._ Of all things. "Me, Mr Bates, Andy and Albert, and then there's a boy in from the village sometimes when we've got events on, so he's been around. But only in the day. And Mr Bates has a cottage."

The man's hands were back to his jacket again, this time only to fuss with a button, then the placket.

He had nice hands, Mr Ellis. And nice fingers, not that he'd gotten too close of a look at them. Still, you had to be pretty dextrous to be a good valet to begin with, and he'd seen him eyeing the piano the night before even if he hadn't had the courage to ask about it, pity that there wasn't going to be time left to explore the matter any further because Thomas was _very_ interested —

"Could be worse, I suppose."

"We're better off than some of the other places around," a little too affronted, but the state of the staff was a reflection on him, wasn't it? He was in charge of this place. 

Or had been, at any rate. Had been until Mr Wilson arrived yesterday (with Ellis in tow) and made him look like a fool in front of Lady Mary, when it was her fault he'd been rushed in giving them a proper welcome in the first place, but _Carson_ would never have let it happen…

Carson never let anything happen, though. That was the thing. He didn't take anything lying down, would fight tooth and nail to keep things just as they were, and Lady Mary was like that, too. That was why they got on so well. Thomas's own lot was to hate the way things were and never have enough power to change it, which was why he and Lady Sybil had gotten on so well.

Poor Lady Edith had never had a servant for a friend, had she.

Ellis was staring at him a little too intently.

"Been in a lot of big houses lately, Mr Barrow," he said airily. _And you could do a lot better, too,_ was that it? "I'd say you've got things well in hand here…"

Oh. 

Well.

"...easy to forget the state of things sometimes, being up in London."

Thomas blinked.

And Ellis added, "and not all of the entourage comes to remember."

"Not like you," Thomas said. Flirted, rather. He was bloody mad — hadn't he learned his lesson by now?

Ellis laughed; Thomas thought, _I made him laugh;_ he had not had butterflies in his stomach like this since fucking 1920 or thereabouts, and —

"No, Mr Barrow, I'm one of a kind."

_You can say that again._

The butterflies insisted on sticking around, of course.

Thomas couldn't make himself say anything; he found himself looking out into the corridor, too. He wasn't doing anything wrong, though. Certainly, he was very, very conscious that he was standing in another man's room half-dressed (okay, not _really_ , by modern standards) and that the man was very handsome and probably had been waiting for him to leave for the last thirty minutes, but he wasn't doing anything wrong.

"Best keep that in mind, these next few days," Ellis said after a moment. The smile hadn't left his face. "Don't let us get to your head."

Too late. 

Not that he meant it like _that._

"The Royal Household sweeps all before it," Thomas said.

"Keen ears you've got there."

He raised his eyebrows; Ellis coughed and added quickly, "you, er, feeling any better about all that?"

"Should've expected it, really."

This was getting to the point where he almost felt like he should be sitting down again. Putting his feet up. Having a cup of tea.

"I asked about how you're _feeling_."

Him and nobody else.

"I'll be all right," he said slowly. "Not any concern of yours, is it, wouldn't want to bother you."

"Mr Barrow," and there really shouldn't have been anything at all enticing about him saying that, it was what he was _supposed to be called,_ not that anyone ever seemed to do so when it counted, but hearing _Mr Ellis_ say it was something entirely new and different from the rest, "I can assure you that I am very familiar with being shafted in favour of someone who's got nothing on me except that he's older."

Well, that put him on the spot, didn't it.

"I guess you would be."

Yet another vague lift of the eyebrows.

"The other valet _is_ older, then?" he added, after a moment had passed and Ellis still hadn't said anything, just kept looking at him like he was waiting for him to explain himself, which did not seem fair.

As for the question… it made him smile again. Jesus fucking Christ, Thomas was not going to be able take two more days of this.

"Yeah, Mr Miller could be my father," there was a relief, "though you wouldn't know it by looking at him."

Or maybe not.

"Guess they must like them a certain way at Buckingham Palace," Thomas joked, foolishly, _what sort of man said things like that,_ but it did not land at all how he'd intended it to.

Because the smile faltered, and there was a sudden edge in his voice that wasn't there before.

"What way is that, Mr Barrow?"

Oh, fuck. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol i just realised i messed up the timeline on this one........................................ i'll edit that eventually. if you're reading this and seeing this note you're getting the limited edition pre-timeline-fix version!


	9. Richard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> potentially homophobic language in context of conplex inner feelings about own sexuality

"Well," Barrow said after a moment. "Same way as in every other house – no use having a servant who's not worth looking at."

And though he shrugged, was _almost_ smiling, he spoke very deliberately, and there was something icy in his voice. Something Richard had caught a glimmer of before (in the way he spoke to members of his staff who, to be frank, would have gotten far more than a _hint_ at a verbal reprimand if they'd been so impertinent in the Royal Household, audience be damned) but not yet received himself… and he deserved it, didn't he, snapping like that, because Jesus Christ, of course that was all he'd meant by it…

Because Barrow was not a part of the Royal Household.

Richard had grown vigilant from living in a place with eyes everywhere and knives behind every back. He was accustomed to threats — toothless, always toothless, but nevertheless a terror — and he knew what all went in to weaving a thin veil. Had fashioned some of his own in his day. He knew quite well by now that the thing to do was poke at them with a seam ripper until they frayed apart all on their own, to get the implications out into the open.

Problems arose for two reasons: one, the poking had to be done delicately. Two, there had to be something underneath to begin with for it to come to light.

And he'd just gone and forgotten both of them. 

There was such a thing as too much vigilance (although he'd never yet encountered a man with an excess of discretion.) Still, he had time to recover here, and so Richard let himself chuckle. Tried to get the nerves out with it.

"How else'd we blend in with the furniture," he quipped, and Barrow almost cracked a smile.

He was not going to think about the implication that the man thought he was worth looking at.

Didn't mean he fancied doing the looking, after all, although if he did… 

( _Follow your own damn rules,_ Richard scolded himself, _you've not known him a day and a half,_ and that wasn't time enough, not nearly. Unless a man said it outright or gave him more than the eye as an expression of interest, it usually took him three days to get anything resembling confidence that there was even a _chance_. And no matter how hard a lesson it had been to learn, he knew full well now that a man could be like him without liking him.)

...if he did, it would be mutual.

"Wallpaper for me," Barrow replied eventually.

If things were different, he could have said, _can't imagine you blending in anywhere, Mr Barrow…_

But things were as they were.

The breath and ease Richard had felt throughout their conversation was gone now, and he knew he was at fault for it. His head was suddenly empty but for the things he couldn't ever say aloud, the foolish silly fanciful things that would be much too forward even if he _did_ know for certain.

From the considering look on his face, the sharpness of his gaze and the turn in his lips, Barrow had noticed.

He'd hit a fucking wall.

Ought've called it quits when he almost started undressing himself. No going back from a mistake like that one.

"Don't mean to keep you," said Barrow quietly, and he began at last to actually move toward the door. "I, er…"

"I can be an ear," Richard managed to choke out, and he kept going before he had a chance to regret it: "if you want – if you'd care to have a listening ear, Mr Barrow. I know what it's like. Didn't mean anything by bringing it up."

This return of his courage and resulting rush of words from his mouth earned him a blank stare.

"A listening ear," Barrow repeated, as though the notion was comical.

It was, put like that. Grown man talking in cliches and metaphors...

"Yeah," said Richard. He tried for a smile, just a small one. "Yes. If you like."

Drowning in his own insecurities though he may have been, Richard was fairly certain that he had done nothing that ought to have made Barrow look as though he'd been slapped in the face. 

Not affronted — that he might have understood. Bowled over.

Even the little _it's because you're a queer_ voice in the back of his head didn't know what to make of that.

But then it was gone. Returned to as he was.

"I might," Barrow said mildly. "Haven't had one in a while, don't remember if I do or don't," with a tilt of his head.

 _Don't make a thing of it,_ his face was saying, _but…_

"Thank you for offering, though, Mr Ellis."

Tongue-tied, Richard nodded; Barrow was already halfway out the door, but he paused.

"Tomorrow," he said.

"Yeah?"

"How bad's it going to be?"

Right.

He hesitated.

"Well, Mr Ellis," smirking in a way that made his breath catch, "if the look on your face is anything to go by… see you in the morning, goodnight."

And then the door clicked shut, and Richard was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have the flu but im still writing fanfic. hope this is comprehensible!


	10. Richard

"Mr Barrow," he began, and then he paused — actually paused, took a second to get a good look at him.

_Not too good of a look,_ he warned himself, _you do not have the right,_ but what he did have was a second. And he knew how to make the best of those.

So he looked, and it was going to make him come off as serious and pensive. He wasn't those things naturally, but he'd practiced seeming as though he was. Never knew when a penetrating stare might come in handy, after all.

Rather, a focused stare.

Because he needed to give the impression that he was being serious and pensive so as not to give the impression that he was… eyeing the arms of a man whom he reckoned was rarely seen in shirtsleeves and wondering what the rest of his clothing was hiding.

Word choice made all the difference.

"That is how I like to be called, yes."

_Not too good of a look._

But he kept it up a moment longer, because if he averted his eyes too quickly it'd be admitting to doing something wrong — plenty of normal men could get lost in thought while staring off in the wrong direction; for the time being, he was one of them.

Richard blinked as though he were coming to from a daze. He sought eye contact.

"Sorry," he said, accompanying the word with a small smile. "Lost my train of thought for a minute there."

Mr Barrow turned his shoulders toward him, leaned back, eyebrows raised. 

"Does that happen very often, Mr Ellis?"

So he'd noticed him looking before, then. Sneaking glances between pages.

He ought to have sat further down along the table.

"I get to woolgathering like anyone else," he answered mildly. As though of their own volition his fingers were toying with the corner of the current page, folding and unfolding; Richard closed the book around his hand. Like he was holding his place for a moment.

"What did you want, then?"

Had he wanted anything? Or had he just wanted to say something, anything, to get and guard his attention? If the latter he supposed he'd succeeded in it, but not in the way he must have intended. But Mr Barrow seemed to be teasing; there was that smirk on his face, the lift in his tone.

The moment Richard opened his mouth to answer, knowing he'd think of one before all the words came out — 

"Ah! Mr Barrow…"

And this must be the devil aforesaid, entering the servants hall from the passage. Before the voice had finished Mr Barrow was already standing.

Richard had to wonder exactly how much time had passed to make the man before them now the _previous_ butler.

"Mr Carson," accompanied by a smile so forced it almost made him cringe.

"And _you_ are?"

Terribly impolite of him though it may have been, Richard chose that moment to rise to his feet and give a winning smile. He wasn't entirely fond of the look he'd found himself receiving: it was an obvious appraisal, and with no small amount of disdain.

Not worth going round the table.

"This is Mr Ellis," and if anything was for certain it was that this man, despite his many attractive qualities, quite clearly did not know how to put on a genuine happy face when he wasn't feeling one, "His Majesty's Valet."

"Oh – _well,_ then," and Mr Carson proceeded to introduce himself and express his hopes that his stay at Downton would be to his liking, that they were so grateful to have the honour, and everything else he'd heard already from every butler in Yorkshire except for the one next to him. This was what lended most of the tedium to touring. 

He was precisely the sort of man whom Richard had expected to meet at the door the prior afternoon.

Eventually he had a chance to return the sentiment; they shook hands across the table. 

"Now – er, _if_ you don't mind, Mr Ellis," in a tone like he couldn't possibly, but a man could ignore implied dismissals for ages and get away with it if he played his cards right, "Mr Barrow, I couldn't help but notice…"

The thing about domestic service: it was inherently demeaning. A man who took pride in his work, and Richard was one, had to battle day in and day out with the knowledge that not only was _his work_ a looked down on by everybody else he might encounter — plenty of working class folk about who took solace in the fact that no matter what else it came to they weren't somebody's servant — but that it was, when all was said and done, absolutely meaningless. On his part he was a grown man employed in helping another grown man to dress, who'd've guessed it, yet another grown man. (And wouldn't Wilson have his guts for garters if he knew he'd ever thought of the King Emperor in such terms.) 

Not the most admirable métier.

He hadn't the faintest idea if Mr Barrow felt the same as him about any of that, although his inkling was _yes_ and his hope was _yes and,_ but he did reckon that he'd agree that as menial as the work was already, the only thing more mortifying than doing your job in the first place was being seen as _unfit_ for it, or God forbid _unnecessary,_ when any man their age in the positions they'd come into had doubtless spent their entire life honing the craft of _being somebody's servant_ and been brought up from birth to figure that was the best chance they had at living a life that had in it anything resembling comfort… and then the people who created the circumstances necessitating the very existence of their work could do away with it all at the drop of a hat.

Let alone being told off for all of it in front of an audience, which although a technique much beloved by the Royal Household was not one he was especially fond of.

On the bright side, if this Mr Carson had never felt or thought about any of this before, he was about to be unpleasantly surprised.

Conscious that Mr Barrow was beside him, gritting his teeth, clenching his hand into a fist at his side in such a way that Richard was tempted to reach over and grab it just from seeing it out of the corner of his eye… 

He waited for the man on the other side of the table to take a breath. 

"Right," said Richard, careful in his performance of nonchalance, giving a practised smile. "Mr Barrow and I have lingered long enough… if you're quite finished, Mr Carson?" 

Both men turned and looked at him as though he'd suggested they waltz into the nursery and toss the children out of the window.

"Mr Ellis," Mr Carson began, with the air of an impatient man trying to come off as though he wasn't. "I don't mean – "

"Only Mr Barrow led me to believe that you'd have things well in hand here, until Mr Wilson returns." He paused. Mulled over his words before he said them. There were more and less diplomatic ways to go about pulling rank. "The established order of things tends to go up in the air when we're around, sorry to say… know it can be a nuisance, answering to others when you've not done for years, but I reckon that's why we're only here 'til Friday."

By the look on the man's face, brows furrowed and eyes wide, he was getting the point across. No matter how sweet he could make it sound he was burning bridges here and no mistake; the only question was exactly how many.

But if he'd already lit the match...

"Gather what in the meantime you've your work cut out for you, Mr Carson," Richard said, gentle. And then he prayed the answer to the question was _one._ "Shouldn't like to keep you from it. Er, Mr Barrow, didn't you say before you'd show me where I might find – "

"As a matter of fact I did," returned Mr Barrow, and not too quickly, neither. He'd caught on, although whether that meant Richard was going to get away with this was another matter entirely. "Can't imagine the house is much more complicated than what you're used to, _Mr Ellis,_ you'll figure it out in no time…"

And as they left the servants' hall he went on chattering about the layout of bedchambers and dressing rooms in the mens' corridor until they happened to actually be there — he evidently knew how to keep up appearances, although Richard knew that was nothing to read too much into — and then they were tucked away around a corner from the rest of the corridor.

It reminded him of things he had no business thinking about, and Mr Barrow had a look on his face like certain men got when they couldn't decide whether they ought to knock you in the jaw or buy you a drink.


	11. Richard (cont.)

"Look," he began. "Mr Ellis, I may not mind you – "

"Thanks."

A flicker of annoyance passed in his face. 

It was too charming for the circumstances.

" – but I don't _know_ you, either, and you've got a nerve if you think that because you work for the Royal Household nobody'll have a problem with you bringing us all to heel – "

"Is _that_ what you thought I was up to," he interrupted.

"It bloody well was," Barrow retorted, and then he looked vaguely uncomfortable — perhaps for the swearing upstairs, which was a _no_ regardless of the sort of household one worked in, but he was already in his damn shirtsleeves, and…

Richard certainly had been, of course, and in doing so had once again gone too far sticking his neck out… and wasn't the reason why just the same as ever.

"Wasn't the first," he said mildly. "Nor'll I be the last."

There was that look he'd received from him earlier, the one that said _I know what you're on about but why are you on about it_ more frankly than words ever could.

"But I will be the last to do so on your behalf, Mr Barrow."

This seemed to make an impression.

To his surprise the man only nodded, curtly, then looked away. 

"We shouldn't be here," he said after a moment, "nothing for either of us to do in this part of the house and I don't fancy being caught half-dressed upstairs," and when put like that Richard realised the man before him wasn't the only one in a compromising position, here; this would reflect on both of them.

What a way to go.

Mr Barrow held open the door to the servants' staircase and followed him through, breathing a conspicuous sigh of relief once it was closed behind them.

"Thank you," he said. It didn't sound entirely grateful, but it must have been, by the look on his face.

"Any time," Richard told him, maybe too much in earnest, and he tried not to stare at his throat as he swallowed. He needed to get hold of himself and _soon_ —

"...thought I might try to buff it out while they're at tea," a woman's voice was saying, echoing in the stairwell from a storey below them; there was the sound of a door shutting.

"I'm up to the attics," Mr Barrow said, more quietly than he had been before. "Knock if you need anything… but you can stand on your own feet, can't you, Mr Ellis?"

Before he could blink he was headed up the stairs.

And Richard _could,_ of course, but with a man so compelling as that around he might start finding excuses not to.


	12. Thomas

"When will you be back?"

He could have phrased that better, couldn't he have… well, he hadn't put Richard off of him just yet, had he? And he'd had chances. But the walk around the city had been pleasant. Pleasant, yes, that was the only way of putting it. Even if he had butterflies in his stomach and a spinning head like a schoolboy he'd managed to hold himself together enough that they'd kept up their momentum from the drive. No awkward silences, no remarks that didn't land. It was almost too easy with him.

Probably was, in fact. Too easy and too good to be true. A man who laughed at the things he said and smiled at him for no reason at all… when was the last time that had happened? He'd put his own job on the line for a plot that had nothing to do with him, just for the hell of it, probably. Thomas liked that.

Too bloody much.

"Haven't figured that out yet, I'm afraid," said Richard, and he took off his hat and leaned against the wall in a _very_ attractive fashion, legs crossed at the ankles and all. Thomas turned at the sound of a tram going past and stared at it like his life depended upon it so he wouldn't get caught looking. "Should warn you I'm not known for being on time… you smoke?"

Wonderful, now he was going to have to avoid looking at the man's fucking mouth.

"I certainly do," Thomas replied, cautious, and he accepted the offer of a cigarette, stuck it in his mouth, took the lighter and despite how nervous he was managed to get a flame on the first try. Last thing he needed was to fumble in front of him.

Richard might have been watching him as he inhaled and exhaled. Might have been. 

Or he was making it up and seeing things because he was so fucking desperate for somebody to be interested in him back, given how bloody long it'd been…. 

Thomas did not successfully avoid looking at Richard's fucking mouth. It was a nice one, at least. Everything about him was nice. If he wasn't careful he was going to get ahead of himself thinking about those lips —

"Do they like that very much, in the Royal Household?" he asked, teasing, just for something to do. Smoking helped calm him down a little, at least.

"What, smoking? Or not being on time?"

Thomas shrugged. "You pick."

"They hate 'em both… only smoke out of uniform," Richard said, and Thomas noticed he held his cigarette with his thumb and middle finger. Which was meaningless. Nothing to make anything of. But now he knew, and so he could add it to the List Of Things He Knew About Richard Ellis. (A list he shouldn't have started to begin with and certainly shouldn't have kept adding to.) "And I'm never late at work."

"Never?"

"When we're not on tour, at least. They slacken the reins a bit in the country."

"Doesn't sound like never, then, if you ask me."

This man's laugh was the warmest sound he'd ever heard in his life and no mistake.

"You tour often, then?" Thomas asked as it subsided, and Richard's smile was catching.

"No, actually." He frowned. Whole face changed and so did the mood. "His Majesty's in poor health, as it happens, was sort of surprised to hear we'd be headed north this year."

"But you're not complaining."

"God, no, I love it up here."

And he said it so earnestly, with such focus in his eyes, that Thomas was almost taken aback. He'd known he did, it was obvious, coloured everything he did and said since they'd gotten into the car at Downton village, but him saying it out loud was different. Thomas didn't love any place near so much as that, that it would show up in him so obviously, he knew that much. He had places he knew, places he was afraid of leaving, but that wasn't the same as loving somewhere. 

When he'd left Downton he'd realised it meant far, far more to him than he'd ever wanted it to, and he did like Yorkshire, he _did,_ much more than where he'd grown up — didn't love Manchester at all, although that was more to do with who lived there than the city itself. Neither of them inspired anything much more than that, though. They were just safe. Or as close as he'd ever be to it.

"Truly I do," Richard added, and he looked away from Thomas, then, broke the eye contact he'd started, and Thomas realised he'd not been breathing. He took a drag from his cigarette and counted as he exhaled; Richard kept talking. "When I was… must've been sixteen or so… I applied at Downton, actually." 

_That_ was interesting.

"When was that?" — and he tried not to let all of his curiosity into his voice.

"1910," he answered, ever so casually. "Got an offer, too," and Thomas tried to squash the strange competitive feeling that was budding in him.

Completely ridiculous, he'd had the bloody job for seventeen fucking years already… couldn't let that show, could he. What did it matter if he was the second choice _practically two decades ago._ Thomas raised his eyebrows and tried to change the subject. "You are younger than I thought you were, Richard."

"Will that be a problem?"

Thomas could have choked; he only opened his mouth instead, heart pounding.

But Richard looked away, and if Thomas was not mistaken was slightly more pink in the cheeks than he had been a moment ago. "...turned seventeen that year," he muttered, and then he coughed slightly, and then he was smoking.

It was a very bad idea to read too much into the comment, but what was Thomas known for if not his very bad ideas?

They'd have plenty of time later in the evening. He could drop some hairpins, or whatever it was called. He had been already, if he was honest with himself.

"It would've been a step down," Richard said after a moment, awkwardly. "Was at Studley Royal Hall before."

Thomas had applied there, too… Richard must not have left yet.

"Was that when you joined the Royal Household, then?"

"No," and he was smiling again, at ease. He could turn on a moment's notice, couldn't he? "They brought me on in '21. No, I got a place up at Inveraray Castle. Went for fourth footman on a lark, had been a hallboy before, but I turned out to be the tallest, so…"

Lucky bastard.

"What luck," Thomas quipped, and when Richard laughed he got the same feeling he used to when he won footraces. He'd been feeling a lot of that this week.

"Yeah. Mum wasn't too pleased I didn't stay in Yorkshire, but she couldn't complain about a Duchy, could she?" He was not smoking as much now, Thomas noticed. Too busy beaming like the bloody sun. "I stayed there up 'til the war." The smile faltered. "Er, got lucky there, too, was soldier-servant to the Duke of Loughborough in the Navy, Adriatic Campaign, so I've got a different experience than most blokes… but yeah," he took a deep breath, dropped and stamped out his cigarette with his heel. "Yeah, I joined the Household a couple years after as a valet apprentice and got promoted a few years in, ahead of schedule, and, er, here I am."

"Here you are," Thomas echoed. 

Ahead of schedule… Richard _was_ young, he thought, young and ambitious. 

Thomas had been those things, once.

For a long moment, they only stared at one another, and then — feeling scrutinised — he put out his own smoke.

"Right," said Richard. "Erm, a couple of hours, maybe?"

"By 'a couple' you mean…"

Richard chuckled, looked at the ground. "You're quick on the draw, Mr Barrow… let's say three."

As if on cue, they both pulled out their watches; Thomas nodded. 

Good thing he'd asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inveraray castle, seat of the duke of argyll, is used as duneagle castle in downton abbey canonically................................ but i'm the fanfic author and i make the rules. the duchy of loughborough does not exist; i yanked the details from the 5th duke of sutherland.


	13. Chris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise! 
> 
> (just posted chapter 12, as well, so if you saw this in the listing and clicked straight to the most recent chapter, read that first!)

He's being watched.

Watched, but not in a way he ought to be much concerned with — a long look, then back to the bar, then a quick one, repeat. Poor bloke is awfully nervous.

It's a far cry from _there's something off about that one and no mistake,_ and it's been going on long enough that Chris has the general picture of things. It's his lucky day, apparently; he's only here for the fact that there are better things to drink at a legitimate brick-and-mortar establishment than where he's headed off to for the rest of the night. Not his habit, but maybe he ought to make it one. He can't recall the last time he was eyed like that.

And he'd be lying if he said he'd not done some looking of his own over the last hour and then some.

Because it's been an hour at the least. The man has been waiting for someone, that much is obvious; equally obvious is the fact that it's been a damn while. Ought to be a crime standing up someone with a face as pretty as that...

May as well do the other bloke's job for him.

How's that saying about the early bird go, again?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol tbt when all of these were going to be this length.... i wrote this one 3rd if you can believe that.


	14. Thomas

"Could put the kettle on."

"Getting a bit late, isn't it?" asked Richard, and Thomas couldn't tell if the nonchalance in his voice was about the time of night or the fact that this was all about to end — and didn't he hope it was the former, because his heart had been through enough this evening and the last thing it needed was a reminder that none of this was nearly so out of the ordinary for Richard as it was for him. Probably did that all the time, playing white knight for men who ought to bloody know better… 

It was all to do with pity anyway.

He hadn't felt like that even ten minutes ago in the car, but he certainly did now, seeing that look on the man's face. 

With their hats off, the backdoor locked behind them and the servants' passage lit only by stray bits of moonlight, filtering in from the hall and kitchen, all they'd just been through and spoken of seemed like a dream.

A nice one, of course. Pleasant.

But one that was over and done with and no mistake. They both had lives to be getting back to, and seeing as Thomas had almost bloody thrown his away not a few hours ago… he took out his watch.

"Oh, fuck."

And then Richard was behind him and so close to his shoulder he might as well have been resting his head on it.

"That time already?"

"Looks to be, Mr Ellis," he said. His head was suddenly rushing.

"Did I tell you my Christian name for no reason, then, Mr Barrow?"

He was speaking too softly, almost into his ear. It sent a thrill down his spine, a real one, and he hoped that Richard didn't notice him cringe, because he certainly wasn't doing so in the regular way one did. Thomas slipped his watch back into his pocket and stared at the floor, tugged at the cuff of his glove. He said, "Richard."

"Thomas."

The man had no right to have a smile like that, one that Thomas could see in his mind's eye from only a word spoken into his ear.

His _lips_ were right by his _ear;_ he could feel him breathing —

And he heard him swallow, heard him pull away. 

Thomas didn't let him get very far.


	15. Thomas

This was, he thought, probably a bad idea, but…

God, as if there was any _probably_ about it. Of course this was a bad idea. This was the bloody worst idea he'd had in ages—made worse by the fact that he'd really only had it for a few seconds before following through on it. Sort of. He'd been looking, he wasn't about to deny that, but he hadn't been staring, and he hadn't been the one to start the whole ordeal, if he recalled correctly.

But maybe he didn't.

Whether he had or not didn't matter, though, because he was here now and so he had to manage it. 

This was not his first time going off with a stranger he'd met in a pub.

It _was_ his first time going off with a stranger he'd met in a pub without knowing where, precisely, he was headed. He didn't know much, other than that it was somewhere with a name attached. And he'd asked if he knew _it,_ not if he knew _him,_ although whether that meant anything significant was anyone's guess… hadn't asked much else, though, had he? Chris Webster was bold and no mistake. 

Thomas had never approached anybody without getting very, very close to him first. 

Service used to make things easy: barring one or two notable misfires, he'd done well in his early days. Valeting, especially. In the season they'd have a different dinner party every night, and most always somebody ended up needing a man to wait on him after. If he chose his words careful and let his touches last a little longer than they needed to, whoever it was would usually find a way to let him know what was what before he went to lay his hand on his cheek. Even if they wanted him to make the first move. (The ones who went for it first themselves were never anything to write home about, and they didn't care that he thought so.) And waiting at table and holding up carriages and all of that got him as near to other houses' footmen as he needed to be—not that that was what he liked best, but it was something.

Then there was the hunt, and the shooting, lords and officers and members of parliament in and out of the house all year round keeping him busy at work and play alike.

Of course, everything had gone to shit during the war, and none of that had ever been the same since, and now here he was hurrying through the streets of York after dark with a man he'd known about ten minutes at most because he'd not done anything worth mentioning with anybody at all in more than a fucking year.

Service didn't make it easy _anymore_.

He couldn't tell Chris he was a butler. Wouldn't.

Being a servant wasn't exactly attractive.

It had been sort of refreshing, when he'd thought Richard might have been after him. Nice to think they could be equals, in a way, although he wouldn't pretend they were _really_ on the same level, him working for an earl and Richard valeting the fucking King of England. But it was better than him being so far beyond his station he'd not have any power at all, and that was what he'd found nice. Seventeen years ago he'd have rather died than spend more time than as-long-as-it-took with another servant, but these days beggars couldn't be choosers, and –

Well, Thomas had liked him. He had been interested.

He couldn't fool himself; he had been, and it wasn't just desperation that had done it. The man was more than a pretty face. (Though the pretty face never hurt.)

So much for all that.

 _Not known for being on time,_ he'd said, but things had gotten absurd.

He'd get the night service back to Downton if he had to.

Whatever this was, it was probably going to be better than anything that could have happened, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr as [@combeferre](https://combeferre.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
